


Complications and Stipulations

by TheAwkwardEnthusiast



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Infidelity, Emotional Manipulation, Forced Relationship, Fragging for Peace, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Infidelity, M/M, Murder, Sad Ending, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22579861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAwkwardEnthusiast/pseuds/TheAwkwardEnthusiast
Summary: When the threat of extinction brings the war to an end, Soundwave and Jazz find themselves brought unwillingly into each other's personal lives. There's a demand for intimacy, for love, in the name of peace and they are left with no choice but to comply.But old secrets and bitter lies have a way of resurfacing when least expected and the fragile harmony they built together finds itself shattering in the most painful way possible.Neither, unfortunately, is eager to pick up the pieces.
Relationships: Background Shockwave/Optimus Prime, Jazz/Soundwave, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 58





	Complications and Stipulations

**Author's Note:**

> This was an errant plot bunny that refused to be ignored and it continued to spawn until I finally paid attention to it and sat down to write something.
> 
> Make of it what you will, dear readers. Please mind the tags and don't be afraid to voice your thoughts in the form of kudos and/or comments! :)

Cybertronians had once been on the verge of extinction. 

They found out this fact by mistake, an accidental interdimensional mishap that neither Wheeljack nor Brainstorm could have properly anticipated, but the realization of their grim future was strong enough to deter the war for a couple orns. 

More than enough time to come to terms with the creeping threat of oblivion and draft up an armistice with sufficient clauses to deter even the most curious from seeking out any loopholes. 

It promised peace. The possibility of a future unmarred by war. 

For all intents and purposes, it was perfect. A government was allowed to flourish, independent from the functionalist policies that started the war in the first place and those that fought to end it. Cities were rebuilt, the core was brought online and stabilized and socially, the planet was flourishing in the face of a free democracy.

The Galactic Council had tripped over themselves to ratify the treaty and the main delegates had swallowed their sense of organic superiority and even attended the official signing ceremony on Cybertron. 

They’d even brought along some confetti. Granted, it’d been a nuisance and gotten into every bots’ seams but nobody complained; appearances had to be kept, after all. After the grand reception party where no Cybertronian even looked at the High Grade and every organic got wasted enough to forget up and down, a heavy silence fell over the planet.

It lasted until the last non-combatant left for their cities and every organic was loaded on its ship and jettisoned into space and then, all hell broke loose. 

The astrosecond the last ship departed the atmosphere, Cliffjumper proceeded to stomp over towards Astrotrain, rip out the Energy goodie he’d been sucking on from his hand and throw it onto the ground with an angry rev of his engine. 

“You’re slagging disgusting!” He’d seethed, stomping on it with his pede until it was nothing but grounds of dust on the floor. “Licking it with your glossa like you’d been doin’, have you no shame?!”

Astrotrain had the decency to look mildly appalled but his confusion had only lasted for a second before a smirk crept across his face. He’d leaned down until his face was inches from Cliffjumper’s and chuckled softly. “That’s no way to speak to your conjunx, little Autobot.”

Mirage and Hound were quick to subdue the enraged minibot, each grabbing an arm and pulling him back as he kicked and screamed bloody murder. Astrotrain giggled and that only prompted other Autobots to take the offensive and in automatic response, Astrotrain’s peers, even the ones who despised him, moved in to flank him. 

The tense air was almost palpable but thankfully the majority of assembled bots weren’t so eager to jump into a fight. Some of them berated Cliffjumper, others goaded him on and the majority asked Astrotrain, with twisted grimaces on their faces, where he’d left his fragging dignity. 

Optimus and Megatron shared a glanced between them as they stood on the fringes of the disarray, the former tired and the latter annoyed. It was obvious that they’d wanted to be anywhere but there, perhaps even caught among the cargo of one of the fleeing organics’ ships, but their authority was perhaps the only thing keeping the armistice from being ripped apart right then and there. 

With a heavy inhale, Optimus shouted a call for silence and Megatron followed it with a throaty “ _now_!” that had even Starscream snapping his lips shut. Slowly, methodically, the assembled Autobots and Decepticons quieted down and turned their collective attention to their two leaders. 

Fury and disbelief shone in all their faces and though they were both sympathetic, they were loath to voice it. 

“What’s gotten into all of you?” Optimus demanded, the exhaustion in his voice wielding just as much power as his capable anger. Blue optics narrowed over the rim of his battle mask. “We all agreed to this armistice. It bears every single one of your signatures. You each read the clauses, the footnotes, the stipulations…every single glyph and agreed to it.” He paused. “You swore yourselves to upholding it.”

“Gun to my head, I’d swear myself to anything. Even Unicron.” The remark, made by Skywarp, prompted a few laughs among the assembled mechs but it died down quickly when Megatron fixed the Seeker with a glare. 

Optimus glanced at Megatron from the corner of his optic, EM field flaring questioningly but Megatron snapped his back almost immediately. A topic for another time, it seemed. 

Cycling a ventilation, Optimus swept his optics over them, observing how even after having spent orgs pretending to be the best of friends, they still subconsciously divided themselves into their own factions. 

Only Jazz stood apart from the rest, leaning against Soundwave with a nonchalant half-smile on his face. But even he wasn’t safe from the unease plaguing everyone. To all else he looked like the epitome of haphazardness but Optimus could tell by the flickering in his visor that his battle computer was on and actively standing by. 

When Starscream shifted his footing a few feet behind him, Jazz responded by repositioning himself as well and subtly glancing over his shoulder to sneak a peek at the Seeker. 

Everyone was on edge. Optimus loathed to imagine what it would be like when he sent each newly bonded pair back to their compartments.

He pondered briefly whether or not he’d have to alert the authorities of a few preemptive murders. 

Shaking away the negative thoughts from his processor, Optimus forced himself to focus on his task. He was supposed to lift morale, not bring it down. Even if it took him eons upon eons to get to where the galaxy thought Cybertron was at now, he’d see it through to the end. 

Megatron seemed to be on the same page and with a rather dramatic roll of his optics, he proceeded to offer his own formula of admonishment. It was nothing more than a culmination of snarls and half-growls, peppered with a few insults that had even Cliffjumper averting his gaze. 

But in the end, it seemed to do its job. Not long after Megatron had finished his tirade, the group began to disperse and as both leaders watched, they all singled off into their respective couplets. 

Cliffjumper trailed after Astrotrain, refusing to look him in the eye. Bluestreak and Thundercracker followed Starscream and Skyfire while Skywarp tried to goad Sideswipe into following him by waving an Energy goodie in front of his face. 

Mirage quietly walked up to stand beside Megatron, though it was hard to miss how his gaze lingered on Hound as he walked reluctantly hand in hand with Dirge. It was stark contrast to the manner that Shockwave idled by, single yellow optic impervious as he waited for Optimus to step down from his metaphorical pedestal and follow him to their abode. 

Optimus’ Spark never failed to twist and turn in his chest every time he caught Shockwave’s optic and he pushed down the painful memories that threatened to resurface from times long past. He’d chosen this. Now it was up to himself to see it through. 

“Good luck,” Optimus breathed, turning to look at Megatron. Mirage refused to meet his optics. 

“Unnecessary,” Megatron retorted. However, he noticed the air around Optimus and quickly amended his harshness by adding, “but thank you.” Without preamble, he extended his hand towards Mirage, palm up, and waited until the former Towerling reciprocated and took his hand. Optimus watched them go. 

“Optimus, are you ready to depart?” The Prime started slightly at the sound of Shockwave’s deep harmonics so close to his audial but he kept his posture composed as he turned to regard the former Senator. 

Forcing a smile that fell once he realized it went unnoticed, Optimus dipped his helm in acknowledgment and proceeded to lead the way towards Iacon, where their apartment was located. Shockwave’s heavy footsteps followed, methodical and measured, and Optimus paused, more than ready to transform and simply drive the rest of the way back. 

But the warmth of a hand wrapping around his stopped him, forcing him to a standstill as he glanced back to look at Shockwave then at their joined hands. 

“Shockwave?” It was pitiful how hopeful his voice was. 

The purple mech cocked his helm to one side. “A formality,” he murmured simply. “Given the fact that we are now conjunx, that is. Affection is a paramount factor to the stability of our relationship.”

Optimus stiffened. “Right,” he said, fingers tightening around Shockwave’s. “Of course.” He didn’t bother to school his expression as they continued on their way but Shockwave seemed to care very little of the sad glimmer in his conjunx’s blue optics. 

All in the name of peace.

* * *

Nobody expected the Autobot and Decepticon bondings to go well. In fact, the government had put aside a small response force in case they didn’t and deadly force would have been necessary to “put them in their place.”

Happiness wasn’t a factor in whether or not they worked. As long as no Decepticon or Autobot reared their head and screamed for revolution or anarchy, everyone turned a blind eye to them and they were free to do whatever they so pleased. 

Some, like Brainstorm and Onslaught, lost themselves in work. They saw each other sparsely and when the need to release charge took precedence, they had “assistants” that were conveniently available to offer them their services. No questions were asked and no answers were expected.

It was a system that worked. 

Other bots, however, did not have the luxury of emotional detachment. 

Soundwave had a reputation of being stoic and unfeeling; the statue of stability that had held up the Decepticons through sheer willpower and ingenuity. He was untouchable as far as mechs go.

But if only they could see him now. 

The war had been unkind to all but it had taken an especially sadistic pleasure in torturing Soundwave. Joors before the discovery of their extinction, Rumble and Buzzsaw found themselves the unfortunate victims of a sporadic Autobot bombing. Ravage had been unable to deal with the resulting trauma of the two broken bonds and simply disappeared. 

Soundwave held onto the hope that he was still alive. But everytime he tried to reach out, he was met with only silence and a cold darkness.

As a result, Lazerbeak and Frenzy were on their last legs. Even without taking them to see Hook for their decaornly checkup, he knew. Neither did much other than recharge and eat what Soundwave gave them and when the host mech tried to get them to walk outside with him, they’d lay limp and motionless until he’d stop his pleading and leave them in their rooms alone. 

On occasion, Jazz would go in and sing to them and for a moment, there’d be flickers of light in their optics but it’d die as soon as the last of Jazz’s sweet harmonics echoed off of the empty walls of their habsuites. 

It was no different that particular orn. Lazerbeak’s left wing gave the briefest of twitches as soon as Jazz’s fingers thrummed the final notes of the song on his holobass but it returned to its deathly still state even as the former saboteur reached down to pet the top of her helm.

“Tough crowd,” Jazz murmured softly as he closed the door to the aerial’s room behind him. He adjusted his grip on his musical case and sighed, visor dim. “A pity, she was always my favorite.”

Soundwave sighed, “Buzzsaw’s absence, continues to grate on Lazerbeak.”

“Sh’yeah.” Jazz scoffed as he brushed past him. “If I’d had my spark twin taken from me, I’d probably be in the same as her.” His lips pursed but he said nothing more. Instead, he wandered into the living room and rested the holobass container in its usual corner, fixing it until it was inclined at the perfect angle. 

Soundwave silently watched as Jazz made his way to the kitchen, the cupboard door squeaking open noisily and class cubes tinkling as the mech made himself a cube of unleaded Energon. When he emerged, Jazz had a glowing blue cube inn his hand and he sipped it lazily. He paid Soundwave no mind as he fell onto the couch and turned on the monitor screen, settling on a black and white Cybertronian soap opera that neither was old enough to even remember. 

Trying not to disturb the former saboteur, Soundwave took a seat on the opposite end of the couch.

The quiet hum of voices from the TV drifted through the air, driving away the silence that always seemed to permeate their home’s atmosphere. On occasion, Jazz would giggle at one of the actor’s antics but he’d choke it down before it could blossom into a full-blown laugh. 

After the third episode, he downed the last of his cube and let out a heavy sigh, stretching his arms above his head and propping his pedes up on the little table in front of him. The delicate structure creaked under the weight but Soundwave had learned long ago that it was far stronger than it looked.

Once upon a time it’d been able to withstand the combined might of Rumble and Frenzy jumping up and down in glee. Jazz’s pedes were nothing in comparison.

It has easy to remember such a memory and he glanced at the table longing from the corner of his optics.

“If you wanna mope, the balcony’s free.” Jazz suddenly muttered, snapping Soundwave out of his morose thoughts. His gaze never strayed from the monitor screen but his mouth had taken that familiar downward tilt that it always did whenever he spoke to Soundwave. “You’re messing with the vibes in here with all your melancholy.”

Soundwave stiffened, but made no move to get up. “Apologies.”

Jazz tutted, shaking his helm. “Don’t apologize,” he retorted. His grip on the remote tightened. The little volume bar appeared at the bottom of the screen, the green tic moving all the way up until the music and voices were loud enough to drown out even the annoying _tink-tink_ of the ratty dehumidifier working in the kitchen.

Almost on cue, a whimper was transmitted through the bond and Soundwave perked up at the sign of the first interaction from Frenzy in decaorns. He delved into his symbiont’s side of the quantum bond, registering that the little moans of pain were a result of the high-volume levels of the monitor screen. Frenzy’s audials had always been sensitive and even through the thick door of his habsuite, the sounds were registering at high enough frequencies to cause him discomfort.

Immediately, Soundwave made a move for the remote but Jazz registered his intent and moved it just out of reach.

“What the slag are you doing?” The saboteur hissed, scooting himself further away down the length of the couch.

Soundwave stretched out his hand, fingertips curling in demand. Jazz looked at it then the remote and a grimace crossed his face. “What? You wanna change the channel?”

“High volume, injures Frenzy’s audials.”

For a moment, Jazz looked like he was about indicate his lack of care for the situation but something in Soundwave’s gaze seemed to convince him to turn back to the monitor and lower the volume to a more reasonable level.

The unease on Frenzy’s end immediately settled and a wisp of relief filtered through before leveling into its usual silence. Soundwave immediately pulled back from Jazz, movements careful so as not to aggravate the saboteur.

Jazz watched him go with a wary look. “Does that work for ya?” He asked, tone saccharine.

“Affirmative.”

“Oh good,” Jazz said, smiling. “Wouldn’t want to disturb the kids, now would we?” Something dangerous flickered in his visor as he and Soundwave stared each other down but it disappeared as quickly as it’d appeared. The black and white mech turned off the TV and took his empty cube to the kitchen to rinse it out. He didn’t bother putting it back in its place; instead, he left it on top of the counter, drops of water still running down its side.

He muttered something about going out before wrenching open the door and fluidly slipping into the dimly lit darkness outside, leaving Soundwave, yet again, alone in the apartment.

The telepath waited patiently for a few moments, one hand over his docking chamber as he waited for the usual pain to bloom behind the glass.

At first there was nothing but then gradually, a dull throbbing pulsed in tune with his aching Spark and he let out a small shaky breath, curling over slightly as he waited for his systems to regulate.

When it did, he sighed in relief and allowed himself to sink into the plush cushions of the couch. His processor was lagging and his limbs felt like lead. The exhaustion that constantly followed him like a dark cloud swooped in to wrap him in its embrace and before long, he found himself succumbing to recharge.

Thankfully, he did not dream.

* * *

Soundwave and Jazz had been rivals for as long as they could remember. Their passed had never crossed before the war and during the conflict that plunged the planet into chaotic dissension, their jobs had put them at constant odds with one another.

Unlike their peers, there was never any hate between them. No petty grievances or broken sparks from the past to mar the friendly competition they humored each other with. It was all about being the best. Getting the information their faction desired without letting themselves be caught by the other.

Few offered the intellectual stimulation that they presented one another so when mistakes did occur, they had an unofficial agreement that limited one-on-one interactions to non-fatal torture and eventual release.

It’d locked them in a perpetual stalemate but who were they to care? The war held little value over them except for their sense of self-preservation and survival. It was Optimus and Megatron that held the emotional stakes in the conflict and everyone else was just collateral damage.

Or at least that was the reality they’d allowed themselves to believe.

Unfortunately, the real world was vastly inferior.

Orns before Brainstorm’s discovery, Prowl’s tac-net had suffered a short circuit and when it’d forced itself through a mandatory reboot to declutter its storage space, it found itself rewriting its systems parameters completely.

Originally, casualties had been a subfactor of all strategic planning. The main purpose was to disarm and immobilize, not kill. On paper, the plans were flawless but when it came time to enact them, they’d often resulted in a clusterfuck of variables that forced retreats and unwanted executions.

When the death toll began to rise up on the Autobots’ side, Prowl had whisked Jazz to the side during one particular meeting and demanded results.

Not just victory and success. But cold tangible proof of triumph.

Jazz had joked about bringing a special order of Megatron’s helm on a silver platter. When Prowl had refused to laugh or even berate it, reality had sunk in and Jazz realized that the tactician had taken the euphemism seriously.

Wordlessly, Prowl had handed Jazz a data slug of his mission objective and when the saboteur had read it, he’d felt his knees buckle in shock. But he did not complain and he promised results.

Ten joors before a mistake in Brainstorm’s lab opened up an all-knowing interdimensional rift in time, Jazz had snuck into the Decepticons’ base and planted several high caliber explosives on the underwater ship’s engines. With sure dexterity, he’d primed them up and synced their frequencies to the small hand held remote he brought along in his subspace.

Through the grate that separated him from the uncomfortable heat of the engines and the engine control room, a flash of blue and yellow caught his attention and Jazz had paused in his escape to peer out at the two tiny shapes that had captured his attention.

Rumble was sitting on the floor of the large room, several human cards laid out in a pattern that Jazz recognized as ‘Go Fish’, with Buzzsaw standing half a foot across from him. They were deeply immersed in their game, blind to the slight uptick in the readings displayed on the screens behind him. Their voices and trills echoed with each dealt hand and for a moment, Jazz found himself tempted to ‘accidentally’ fall through the grate and alert the Decepticons of his presence.

But the dataslug in his compartment seemed to burn a hole through his subspace, reminding him of its existence and the weight behind his actions.

Sure, there’d been blueprints on the slug but Prowl had added in something else that made even Jazz stop and think.

Pictures of Gears, broken and grey on Ratchet’s slab, after he’d been torn apart by Megatron himself.

Trailbreaker’s severed helm situated on that cliffside he’d loved to raid during his free time, optics shattered and mouth agape in shock.

Bumblebee’s Spark chamber in a box, cracked and absent of the bright lifeforce that’d been his greatest agent and the rusted bits and pieces scattered on the Ark’s front door with a note affirming they were the scouts remains.

They’d strengthened Jazz’s resolve almost immediately and whatever glimmer of rival affection Jazz had felt disappeared and he didn’t think twice when he escaped and activated the charges.

If anyone asked, he was unaffected by the sudden announcement joors later that called for an armistice and demanded peace between the warring factions. It’d been his job, after all. He’d just been following orders.

When crossfactional bondings had been stipulated, Jazz had been the first one to volunteer himself and he’d gone as far as smiling when Megatron called Soundwave up and wrote their names next to each other in a hidden clause of the armistice.

But secrets between experts of espionage could only be kept for so long.

Consummations were an archaic aspect of Cybertronian bondings but Megatron and Optimus were old fashioned and they had ordered each pair to engage in the three acts of conjunx ritus and seal them in interfacing in private.

Jazz had been a stone statue as he’d grabbed Soundwave’s hand and led him into his room on board the Ark, saying nothing as he gestured for the telepath to sit on the military grade berth while he shut the door and dimmed the lights until only the bare outline of their frames and the bright glow of their visors could be seen.

“Ready?” Jazz had breathed, voice oh so soft. He tried to smile as he approached the sitting telepath, adding a sway to his hips that his frame easily recognized and fell in step to. Soundwave had watched impassively, hands folded neatly in his lap.

It was obvious he didn’t want to be there but unlike Cliffjumper, he hadn’t been dragged into the room kicking and screaming.

His field had reached out towards Jazz’s hesitant, tentative, and when Jazz had reciprocated Soundwave had broadcasted a simple message through their EM fields.

Trust. He trusted Jazz.

Jazz felt a lump rise in his intakes at the admission but he swallowed it down and grinned, reaching out to grasp one of the telepath’s hands in his own.

It’d been the first act, the act of intimacy. Their hands had felt warm to one another, familiar, despite the history that the two of them had shared.

Soundwave had not anticipated Jazz being the one to initiate the ritus but he felt relief at having been spared the necessity to deliver the act of disclosure. There was too much to be said, much stuff that Jazz probably already knew.

Fortunately (and not) Jazz had planned everything beforehand; from the dimness of the lights, the smell of his wax, to the places that they were sitting in. He’d needed the act of disclosure to fall on his behalf because there was something he needed to say, to admit.

But he’d taken one look into that red visor, felt the trust that overpowered the unease and uncertainty in Soundwave’s field and all his courage had dissipated from his body like smoke.

Instead, he’d laughed and reached up to cup Soundwave’s cheek and brought their faces close together so that the rest of the world would be deaf to the following words that left his mouth. The truth of Rumble and Buzzsaw’s death teetered on the tip of his glossa. But Jazz had ignored it and revealed something else, minor in comparison, from the past he’d struggled to leave behind.

Soundwave had listened intently, nodding with each spoken glyph and leaning forward to rest their foreheads together once the saboteur had finished.

“Soundwave, understands.” The words had driven a crystal shard through Jazz’s Spark and the bitter taste of unspoken truths made a lump rise in his intakes. But he was quick to give his gift to Soundwave, a tiny fragment of his Spark casing that he’d saved from an old injury. He’d originally intended to give it to Prowl but given the fact that the tactician had been killed in action, it’d held little meaning.

The telepath hadn’t fooled himself into thinking it was a genuine offering. He’d held it tentatively in his hand for a few brief seconds before putting it into his subspace and snapping his battlemask back to reveal his lower face. Jazz had caught only a glimpse of it before the telepath had pressed their lips together with a soft gasp and the rest of the night was spent reenacting the only act of devotion they were physically capable of offering one another.

It had lasted too long, came to an end far too quickly, and the moment they were both curled around one another, shuddering through a pleasurably painful overload, both of them had been glad that the dim lights did not allow the other to see the stains of coolant that marred their cheeks.

But mostly, they were thankful that the treaty’s impromptu drafting had omitted one fundamental aspect of their being and their sparks, though broken, were allowed to remain safely tucked away behind their dented chestplates.

* * *

The first night, Soundwave paid no attention to the odd smell registering on his olfactory sensors.

He’d been sitting beside Jazz on the couch, reading the news on his holopad while Jazz watched a rerun of Battlestar Galactica, and the saboteur had let out a small huff before rising to his feet and brushing past Soundwave to head to the kitchen for a bite to eat.

Soundwave’s nose twitched behind his mask at the momentary acidity that lingered on his glossa but the moment Jazz returned from his excursion with two bowls of Energon goodies, one sour and one spicy, just the way Soundwave liked them, the smell was all but forgotten. They’d settled in to watch the episode in silence, not comfortable but content. The episode had ended on a cliffhanger and Jazz had moped about not having the next season on his data drives.

But he’d been quick to get over it and once he realized that Soundwave had finished eating his snack, Jazz had grabbed him by the arm and promptly dragged him to the washracks with a suggestive smirk on his lips.

He’d been rough that orn. Pinning Soundwave against the wall for a heated kiss as the burning solvent washed over them, his fingers digging through the seams and attacking the sensor nodes hidden underneath until the telepath was pulling away to gasp for air.

Offering no reprieve, Jazz had spun Soundwave around to face the wall and fallen to his knees, canting Soundwave’s hips back just enough so that his talented mouth could mold itself over Soundwave’s rapidly heating array. Shuttering his optics against the onslaught of tactile sensations, Soundwave allowed his valve panel to fold away and almost immediately let out a garble of static as Jazz’s glossa dove into his slick wet heat with a lurid squelch of lubricant.

Jazz had utilized every skill he’d had in his arsenal, licking and sucking and biting until Soundwave’s hips were rocking in harmony to some unspoken tune and the static in his voice rose a couple octaves with each stifled gasp.

It was undignified, sordid and dirty but oh how Soundwave had loved it. When Jazz’s lips sealed over his anterior node and sucked hard, blistering warmth enveloped the telepath as he was catapulted into the throes of overload. He saw stars and nebulas dancing across his optics, whiting out his vision and the feeling in his arms and legs left him sagging awkwardly against the tile walls.

The saboteur, ever the resourceful one, pulled him down until he was face up on the floor and drove his aching spike into Soundwave’s sopping heat, piercing him with a smooth forward thrust of his hips. Soundwave’s oversensitive valve walls fluttered at the intrusion, pain overpowering the pleasure but when he’d opened his optics to see the crackle of color in Jazz’s visor and the grimace of pleasure on his handsome faceplates, all coherent thought abandoned him.

He found purchase on the slippery floor and dug his heels in, hips rising to meet every single one of Jazz’s thrusts. It didn’t matter that each ringing impact made pulses of hot pain sear through his lower back nor that Jazz’s fumbling fingers on his node scratched more than they stimulated, all that mattered was the look of bliss on his conjunx’s face as overload washed over him and made his back bow and sparks turn the azure of his visor white.

It’d lasted for an eternity, the moment of mutual ecstasy, and Soundwave had taken the opportunity to wrap his arms around Jazz and hold him close.

Jazz had let out a sigh, cheek pressed against the damp plexiglass of Soundwave’s docking chamber. “Shouldn’t’ve let me done that,” he gasped, barely audible over the hissing spray above them.

Soundwave had reached up with one hand to shut it off. “Experience, pleasurable.” It had been. They rarely touched, despite living together and sleeping on the same berth, and Soundwave would have been lying if he’d said he hadn’t begun to find Jazz to be gratifying company.

Jazz had said nothing but Soundwave could feel every strut in his frame tense at the admission until it had driven every ounce of warmth the overloads had brought them. Sighing, Jazz shakily rose to his feet and glanced down at his decompressing spike. An almost disgusted expression crossed his face but he hid it behind a small little scoff.

“You could do better,” Jazz had said, gazing down at him with a sad smile. He reached for a towel and wiped himself down, stepping over Soundwave and exiting the washracks.

Craning his neck, Soundwave had caught sight of Frenzy loitering near the entrance to the washrack, faceplates haggard but optics mildly curious as he peeked over the arm of the couch. There’d been no indication on his face of how he’d felt seeing his host mech completely soaked and debauched on the floor but Soundwave had felt the small echoes through their bond that were vaguely reminiscent of pity.

It’d been then that Soundwave began to realize that something was amiss. But like the stubborn hopeless fool that he’d become, he’d pushed the errant thought to the back of his mind and lifted himself to his feet to complete his wash. The door remained open but Soundwave had paid it no mind.

Nobody had cared enough to observe him, anyway.

* * *

Soundwave could not recall the second time the smell hit him. Nor the third or the fourth or the fifth.

But he remembered the sixth time vividly.

Jazz had sauntered into their shared apartment late in the night cycle, huffing from exertion and with an all too bright look in his visor. He’d smelled of high grade and expensive wax as he’d walked over to give his conjunx a chaste kiss in greeting but Soundwave hadn’t thought too much of those scents because they were inevitabilities of his manager job at a local night club.

The former saboteur was always on the move, directing dancers, serving drinks to patrons and occasionally filling in for whatever role needed filling. He loved the work and the energy he carried back livened up the place in spite of Frenzy and Lazerbeak’s recently negative health diagnoses.

It brought in good credits and their dreary apartment had gradually been remodeled into an elegant minimalistic paradise. They’d left the ratty dehumidifier in the kitchen, however, to remind them of where they’d started.

Sometimes Jazz also brought back treats and that particular night, he’d sauntered into Frenzy and Lazerbeak’s room with a tray of fancy rust sticks and a hopeful expression on his face. Neither had more than a bite to eat but Soundwave had appreciated the small pulses of _feeling_ that the action had garnered.

He’d left his reading on the table and stood up to suggest a more physical manner of offering his gratitude but as he made his way over to where Jazz was exiting Lazerbeak’s room, the light behind him had reflected off one of Jazz’s thighs and made the telepath pause.

There was a small drop of liquid hidden in the seam of Jazz’s inner thigh, near his interfacing array and Soundwave couldn’t help but frown at the small discovery. Jazz, ever the observant one, had caught wind of what he was doing and crossed his legs, helm tilting inquisitively.

“Something wrong, babe?”

The nickname was the second thing Soundwave had noticed. Jazz was rarely ever affectionate enough to even indulge in nicknames; he opted for abbreviations of designations for the sake of verbal fluidity but never ever turned to such obvious words of endearment.

Spark flaring slightly in tune with the spike of cyberadrenaline in his frame, Soundwave walked up to Jazz until he was standing beside him and retracted his mask.

Almost immediately, the smell became overpowering and then Soundwave had been able to full appreciate the cloying odor for what it was. He’d smelled it often enough, when his own helm had been buried beneath Jazz’s thighs during their sporadic interfacing encounters.

It was thesmell of interfacing, of discharged particles that clung to a mech who had been subjected to a grand variety of overloads. Soundwave could not smell any transfluid but the revelation did little to deter the sudden sense of hurt and anger that flared up in Soundwave’s spark.

Battle protocols had begged to be brought online as every strut in his frame had tensed and whorls of red had invaded his vision, blocking out everything in his periphery. Soundwave recalled how the carefully cultivated affection he’d been building shattered and was replaced by an almost animalistic desire to maim and destroy.

Jazz’s face was the epitome of innocence and Soundwave had wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around the mech’s throat and squeeze and squeeze and _squeeze--_

By some miracle, Soundwave’s composure had remained and he’d mustered enough self-control to force himself to give Jazz a quick kiss in greeting.

“Soundwave, is glad Jazz is back _home_.” If Jazz had noticed the extra emphasis on the last word, he hadn’t shown it. The black and white mech had grinned a toothy grin, EM field flaring with affection (and the vaguest sense of relief) before he handed the tray off to Soundwave and sauntered merrily into the washracks with some excuse about wanting to relax and unwind from so much work.

Soundwave had stared down at rust sticks in his grasp, tanks churning in disgust as his imagination forced a variety of unwanted images into his processor. Unable to stomach the sight of the snack, the telepath had quietly stridden into the kitchen and threw them into the trash compactor. Tray and all. It’d given an unholy screech as it tore the cheap metal into pieces and the heavy smell of ground rust was enough to spur Soundwave into the safety of his berth.

There, he’d curled up on his side, back to the door and optics squeezed shut as he’d tried to force himself into recharge. He’d managed to execute the forced shutdown sometime during the night cycle but he’d been promptly awoken by the sensation of Jazz cuddling against his back, lips pressed against the back of Soundwave’s helm and arms slung over his lithe waist.

It was an amorous recharging posture, one usually reserved for conjunxes who could not stand to recharge without one another near.

Briefly, Soundwave had wondered if Jazz had slept with the other bot like this. Had they interfaced in a berth? Or perhaps they’d done it in the back pantry of the club, Jazz sprawled on his back on one of the spare tables while some unknown mech lapped at his anterior node and drank the copious lubricant Jazz never failed to produce.

The images made Soundwave want to hurl. But he’d swallowed down the bile in his intakes and forced himself to pretend that everything was alright.

* * *

Their dinners had taken a rather morose turn as of late. They’d never been lively but Jazz had always turned on some music to combat the quietness or taken to tell Soundwave about some unruly patron that had caused trouble for him at the club. They’d never been quiet, never dull.

Or at least they hadn’t been.

Until Jazz had started fucking every mech on Cybertron that wasn’t Soundwave, that is.

The silent guile that Jazz had used the first few times to keep Soundwave in the dark had been abandoned the night Soundwave had unwillingly been made privy to his conjunx’s affairs. Now, Jazz didn’t even bother hiding the evidence.

He had the dignity to buffer out paint transfers and wipe his frame off any all fluids. But when the light caught itself just right, Soundwave could sometimes see the dried smears of transfluid and lubricant on Jazz’s modesty panels. Sometimes, Jazz didn’t come home for the night and others he’d stumble in reeking of other mechs, seams still steaming as if he’d taken to being fucked on the welcome mat just outside of the front door.

The air in their apartment smelled of interfacing every time Jazz stumbled in even when there had been none occurring between the two of them.

Jazz didn’t bother keeping up facades with Soundwave and he no longer performed for Frenzy and Lazerbeak like he used to.

In fact, the orn that Frenzy’s Spark had puttered out of existence and Soundwave had taken his tiny little frame to be melted down, Jazz had been nowhere to be found. When he’d finally returned home, he’d muttered a greeting and sank into the undone covers of the berth with a self-satisfied sigh.

Transfluid caked the seams of his valve panel, still fresh and dripping, and Soundwave had taken to residing in Lazerbeak’s room. Smelling another mech in your sheets, particularly one that wasn’t your conjunx, wasn’t something Soundwave particularly enjoyed.

Soundwave had been employed in a small company that operated basic security systems in the more lavish parts of New Vos and though the work was taxing, he’d taken it upon himself to work from home to allow himself the opportunity to spend time with his conjunx and symbionts.

But the recent string of Jazz’s interlopings had made the apartment unlivable and so it’d been no chore to call his supervisor and tell him he would be needing his own office on site. Soundwave’s supervisor had been ecstatic and promptly organized it so that Soundwave could begin the following orn. With a schedule that had him out of his apartment for the entire solar and most of the night cycle, Soundwave was able to keep himself occupied with other things.

He did not make friends but company policy demanded his participation in team building events that often-involved trips to other city states or the local historical sites. Soundwave had seen them all but a few of those excursions had allowed him the opportunity to reunite with a few old acquaintances.

Skyfire and Starscream had opened up their own research firm and were perhaps the happiest of all that remained of the Autobot and Decepticon forced alliances. Cliffjumper had killed Astrotrain as he’d recharged and been sentenced for a complete frame overhaul and personality reformatting. The former minibot was a courier for some lord in Praxus now and according to Starscream, much more content than he’d been in his previous life.

The former winglord had softened up a bit, his sharp frame lines and even sharper glossa absent as he toiled beside Skyfire in picking up samples from the Trypitcon carrier Soundwave and his company group had been visiting. Soundwave attributed it to the lack of Megatron in his life but really, it was perhaps the fact that Starscream was now a creator to a pair of twins he and Skyfire had kindled together.

Skyfire showed pictures and thought Soundwave pretended to be enamored, the thought of a tiny creature running around depending on him for everything made his Spark clench in pain and he was quick to accept changes of subject.

When the topic shifted to his own conjunx, Soundwave allowed himself to pretend.

Everything was fine.

Jazz and him were doing well.

Lazerbeak and Frenzy? They were good, too. Getting better even.

By the time Soundwave found a leeway to escape the conversation, his helm had been pulsing painfully and he’d almost lost all the feeling in his knees. A mech Soundwave could not remember the name of asked if he was alright and though his demeanor was tentative and scared, his grip on Soundwave’s arm was firm enough to ground the telepath.

“Affirmative,” Soundwave said, shaking him off gently. He hated how he latched onto the sensation of the mech’s fingers on his arm, the warmth calling to him in a way that was unbecoming of himself. He ached in ways he couldn’t fathom; he’d never been alone in his life, always in the company of one of his symbionts, and now that they were gone, well, he was starting to discover that without an outlet to focus his energy on, madness was slowly starting to creep on him.

He’d contemplated the concept of insanity, remembering those brief orns before Ravage crossed his path, as he made his way home that particular orn. He wondered if perhaps it was time to start considering alternatives...for Lazerbeak was on her last legs and nothing Hook or any medic did had the capability of restoring her to what she’d been.

Soundwave vaguely contemplated joining his symbiont. She was the last part of his quantum bond, after all. The last spark that kept his own from overproducing energy and regulated its rhythm. It was rare but often times host mechs followed their symbionts to the Afterspark; if the bond was strong and the host mech’s will weak enough, a symbionts death could lead to both sparks being extinguished.

The possibility excited Soundwave. Oblivion beckoned to him and the thought of escaping his current reality made his ventilations stall momentarily.

But his thoughts shifted to Jazz and all euphoria of such a prospect evaporated almost immediately. He paused underneath a flickering street lamp, visor dimming in thought. What would happen to Jazz?

A dark little voice, one that had slowly taken form over the recent course of time, snidely remarked that the saboteur would not miss him. With his booming business and more than enough mechs to sate his carnal impulses, Soundwave’s absence would turn out to be nothing more than a brief blip on Jazz’s radar.

It was foolish to accept any less.

They were not lovers, they were not friends. They were just two broken mechs thrust together by the whims of other mechs’ wishes and who’d taken to living out a twisted domestic fantasy.

Conjunx endura was nothing more than a fancy title. Without the bond connecting them together, what was there to solidify the four acts of conjunx ritus that they’d performed all those eons ago, to cement the idea that they belonged to only each other?

Nothing. Absolutely...nothing.

They’d both known this, subconsciously. But it was ultimately Jazz who’d come to terms with it faster.

Soundwave, as usual, had just been left playing catch up. Just like in the war, he was always two steps behind Jazz.

The telepath stared solemnly down the path that led to his home, dental plates grinding against one another as he suddenly found himself conflicted on where to head to next. The path to his right lit up the shortcut Soundwave knew Jazz took to get to his club every orn. Soundwave had never seen it but judging by what little Jazz said, it was unmissable.

A palace of gleaming golden spirals, as tall as the grandest skyscraper, with flashing lights that mimicked every ray on the color spectrum to blind even the keenest of observers.

Soundwave shifted his pedes, hands furling and unfurling into fists at his side. He closed his optics, checked in on Lazerbeak and made his decision. Without a word, he turned right and took the known but unfamiliar road to his next destination.

* * *

Club was an overly gracious term for the establishment Jazz worked at.

Bar was more like it. It was seedy and grungy, the bright lights taking away everybots' attention from the stains and uneven paint that dotted the outside of the building. Debris was piled in the corner and if Soundwave’s vision wasn’t failing him, the dim blue glow in the small alley on the side was being caused by the feral rutting of what appeared to be two very overcharged mechs.

Soundwave averted his optics as he bypassed the line and made his way to the front, pausing briefly in front of the bouncer who, despite his large shoulders and ample armor, only reached up to the telepath’s chin.

“Can I help you?” The other mech drawled, eyeing Soundwave with a suspicious glare. Soundwave found himself reminded vaguely of Brawn and his deeply guttural personality and small processor.

“Soundwave, here for Jazz.”

The bouncer snorted, coughing slightly before proceeding to spit out a wad of unprocessed Energon on the floor between Soundwave’s pedes. “Yeah? You and half the bots in this line, mech. Get in the back of the line and wait your turn.”

Patience waning, Soundwave shook his helm. “Jazz, expecting me.” He placed a hand over his chest. “Designation, Soundwave.”

That earned a hearty guffaw, completely with the whole bending over and slapping of the knee joint. “Riiiight and I’m Megatron, the biggest fraggin’ prick this side of the Nebulous Galaxy.” The bouncer took a step forward and shoved Soundwave back a couple steps. “I’m not gonna ask again, you idiot. Back. Of. The. Line. Or I’ll rip that visor off your face and shove it so deep up your—.”

“—Oi! Crankcase!” Soundwave glanced up to see a young blue paneled mech emerge from inside the bar, wet rag in hand and a dazzling smiling parting his faceplates. Soundwave recognized him immediately.

The new arrival patted the bouncer on the back and laughed, “what do you think you’re doing here?”

Crankcase grimaced, casting an unfriendly look up at Soundwave. “Keeping crazy away from the establishment.” He frowned and gestured to the entrance behind him. “And what the slag are you doing out here, Blurr? You’ve got patrons to serve, don’t you?”

Blurr grinned, “of course I do,” he said, reaching around Crankcase to grab Soundwave’s arm. With an expert twist of his torso and a surge of strength that surprised even the telepath, Blurr managed to squeeze Soundwave past the bouncer and pulled him into the club with an amused laugh.

Inside, the atmosphere was just the same. Dark with bright lights flashing at random intervals to distract everyone inside from whatever it was they needed to be distracted from. The dance floor in the middle of the large room was teeming with writhing bodies and small standing tables dotted the perimeter. A long bar lined the edges of the room, for the patrons who wanted only a drink.

However, the main attraction was the large stage at the very front where two jeweled mechs who were swaying to the beat of the music. Their movements were quick, flawless and calculated. Even without knowing their names, Soundwave could tell that they’d been taught most of their moves by his conjunx. Though they lacked his natural sensuality.

“So,” Blurr all but yelled over the din of blaring music and dancing patrons, bringing Soundwave’s attention back to him. “Are you the infamous conjunx that Jazz always shuts up about?”

The wordplay was not lost on Soundwave and he leaned in to icily growl an affirmative in the mech’s audial. However, his tone only served to make the blue mech grin even wider.

“Have a drink.” He said, sitting Soundwave on an empty stool at the bar table and reaching underneath to pull out a glowing green and orange cube and place it in front of the telepath. Soundwave eyed it with distrust but took it for the sake of posterity.

His mask retracted and he took a tentative swig, grimacing as the sour taste invaded his glossa. It was horrible.

The former racer laughed, setting the rag down on the table and leaning against it. “Would you believe me if I told you this was our most popular drink? Jazz invented it himself.” Cupping a hand around his mouth, he added, “Calls it the Sound Wave.”

It was obvious from the mech’s tone that he was lying but Soundwave couldn’t help but feel intrigued by the sheer amount of backhanded comments the mech had thrown at him in the past few nanokliks. He’d feigned hospitality to get him past the mech guarding the entrance and now he was talking to him as if they were old friends.

Soundwave’s optics narrowed. Two could play the game. Muting the sensitivity in his oral receptors, the telepath downed the cube in a single gulp and smacked his lips in satisfaction. Slowly, sensually, he reached up to wipe a stray drop from the corner of his mouth and cleared his intake.

“Drink,” he said, “appreciated.”

Blurr stared at him, features hardening. A sudden shrill yell sounded somewhere behind them but neither paid attention to it; the music was still beating and no pandemonium had ensued. Probably some overcharged mech slipping on a spill; the floors were terribly kept and rarely cleaned, if the stickiness underneath Soundwave’s pedes was any indication.

After a moment of tense silence between them, Blurr eventually relaxed his stance. “I take it you’re here to see Jazz, right?”

“Affirmative.”

“Too bad,” Blurr lifted a shoulder up and down in a shrug. “He’s unavailable.”

Soundwave grimaced. “Soundwave, not asking for permission.”

Narrowing his optics into slits, Blurr grabbed the edge of the table and leaned his helm forward. “This isn’t one of your little interrogation sessions, Soundwave. You don’t hold any power here and all that fancy telepathy you used to intimidate bots with doesn’t scare me. Remember the armistice? Don’t wanna be the one to go and break it, do ya?” He let out a breath of a laugh before whispering. “What would Megatron say to such a thing?”

Mention of his former commander stirred a dormant part of Soundwave’s loyalty coding and the telepath deleted the start of a familiar line of code in his processing unit before it had a chance to run awry. That was an itch he did not need nor one he would have the capacity to scratch. Shaking his helm, Soundwave replied, “Megatron, unimportant. Soundwave, merely requires an audience with Jazz.”

The former racer’s nose scrunched, as if he’d suddenly smelled something vile. He looked like he wanted to utter a harsh retort, probably voice and insult that he’d had brewing since the time Soundwave had broken his legs back during the war in a skirmish in Altihex. But he managed to compose himself, gripping the edge of the counter hard enough to dent and lowering his helm to cycle a few deep ventilations.

When he lifted his helm up, Blurr’s expression was suddenly one of complete professionalism. He pointed a finger to Soundwave’s left, where a flight of stairs led up to a discreet second level of closed doors. Most of them had red lights situated over the door frame but there was one that was green.

“Those are our private booths,” Blurr explained. “Or they used to be. Now they’re just prep rooms that our dancers use to rest and cool down in between shows. Jazz’s is the one furthest from the stairs. The one with the green light.” The racer smiled. “Pop in and see if he’s willing to see you.”

Soundwave’s facemask slid back into place and he pushed himself away from the bar without farewell. Blurr held his gaze for a few moments before putting away his used cup and turning to greet another customer that slipped in to occupy Soundwave’s former spot. Satisfied, Soundwave made his way through the maze of undulating frames and up the stairs, his Spark beat picking up with each step that led him closer to the designated door.

Finally, he found himself in front of it and he paused, knuckles rapping loudly against it. The music seemed to drown out the sound because nobody answered so Soundwave took that as an invitation to let himself inside. He palmed the matrixpad and twisted the handle open, pushing his way inside.

The sight inside made him freeze in his tracks.

No lights were on in the room, none of the main ones, but a tiny blue xenon lamp in the corner bathed the entire room in a soft blue glow. Soundwave could see the posters that dotted the walls, the desk on one side that was littered with open bottles of waxes and scented oils that made the air smell sweet and tangy.

But those were trivial details. All of Soundwave’s focus was on the large berth taking up most of the space, sheets rumpled and thrown askew, and the way it was moving back in forth in tune with the rhythmic movements of its two occupants.

Soundwave recognized Jazz immediately; his conjunx’s blue visor flared in pleasure he was bent in half, pedes swung over an unknown mech’s shoulders, valve lips glistening with lubricant as they were parted by the other mech's thick long spike and his hips jumped up eagerly to drag it into his dripping valve.

They were panting heavily, fans whirring, and trading obscenities that would have made any lesser mech cringe from the vulgarity. But both were obviously enjoying it; Jazz’s lips pulled back into a panting grin and when the other mech moved his helm, Soundwave caught the lurid grin he sported in his profile.

Neither seemed to notice his entrance but their movements sped up, the squelch of their joined arrays growing louder and louder with each grunt and thrust. Charge crackled at every point they touched, sparks of purple and blue arcing over their flared panels like tiny bolts of lightning.

When Jazz let out a squeal as the other mech hilted himself in his valve and threw his helm back to scream as overload crested through him, Soundwave snapped out of his shock and stumbled back, slamming the door shut.

His back knocked into a warm frame behind him and he whirled around to see Blurr, who had a satisfied grin parting his face.

Soundwave felt a hot flash of anger surge through him. “Why?” He demanded, hating how the strain caused static to filter through his modulator.

Blurr heard him just fine. “I told you he wasn’t available. You should have listened.”

Soundwave had never hated Blurr. In fact, the blue racer had sparsely crossed his mind during the war or peacetime. But in that moment, Soundwave found his Spark aching with the loathing and fury that the mere sight of him wrought. Granted, those emotions had been brewing within him for a while, festering until they began to rot him from the inside out with each betrayal that Jazz had thrown in his face but Soundwave didn’t care about any of that.

Blurr didn’t have time to react when Soundwave slammed into him and the flimsy little handrail buckled underneath their weight and sent them tumbling to the floor below. The dancing patrons had enough sense to move and Soundwave preened internally when Blurr’s back crashed into the metal alloy, a sickening crunch reverberating through them both.

A gasp escaped Blurr but he was quick to regulate his ventilations and he began to fight back with every ounce of strength and Wrecker training he had in him. “Get off me!”

“Negative,” Soundwave hissed, helm snapping back in time to avoid getting caught in the mouthguard with a right hook. “Blurr, will be silent.” He grabbed the mech’s arm and pinned it to his chest with both of his hands.

“You thought he would ever love _you_?” Blurr hissed, dentae baring in a snarl. “Thought he’d be able to forget about Prowl, about how your precious Decepticons killed the only mech he’d ever loved in his fragging life?!” He managed to wriggle an arm free and reached out to grasp the edge of Soundwave’s jaw, fingers digging into the thin metal as he tried to wrench the telepath’s helm back.

“Or how about Bumblebee? It was you who ordered the mission to capture him, wasn’t it? It was you who interrogated him. You who stuck your hand into his chest and— _urk_!” Soundwave snapped his helm free from the racer’s grip and wrapped his hand in his own, clenching his fist and snapping the delicate wrist.

The racer let out a strangled cry of pain and outrage that was abruptly silenced when Soundwave wrapped a hand around his throat, crushing the fine structures and tubes with a mere flick of his fingers.

Optics widening, Blurr tried to struggle but Soundwave bore him down with his weight, digging his knees into the soft alloy that had never been intended for anything other than aesthetics.

Bots around him began to scream when one of Soundwave’s knee stabilizers tore into Blurr’s torso, rupturing the protoflesh and allowing a deluge of fresh Energon to spill onto the floor. Blurr’s blue optics widened and he stopped struggling for a moment, as if in shock, and Soundwave felt triumphant at the sudden lack of fight in the proud mech underneath.

But his euphoria lasted mere seconds before someone slammed into him from behind, wrapping their arms around his neck and applying just the right amount of pressure to for him to relinquish his grip on the blue racer.

Soundwave was thrown unceremoniously to the floor and the telepath hesitated, clearing the stars from his vision before turning to look at who’d just interrupted him.

Jazz stared back at him with fury and shock etching his faceplates, huffing and puffing with his frame riddled with paint transfers and the bright sheen on transfluid on his inner thighs. His recent tryst partner was kneeling down beside Blurr, lifting his helm and offering words of comfort as he scanned his injuries.

Everyone else formed a perimeter around them, their optics shinning in terror.

Soundwave slowly rose to his feet, careful not to make any sudden moves. He hated the wave of relief that washed over him at seeing Jazz but he quietly reveled in it. “Jazz...”

“What are you doing?” Jazz gasped, hands held out in exasperation. He looked angry and sad at the same time, as if he were on the verge of breaking.

“Soundwave, came to see Jazz.”

Jazz gaped at him for a moment before shaking his helm. “Why?”

“Soundwave, desires to make amends.”

“Amends.” Jazz scoffed at the word, laughter bubbling in his chest. He pressed his palms against his mouth to stifle it. His visor dimmed as he cast a look at the assembled patrons and when he lowered his hand, the tentative smile was replaced with a deep-seated scowl. “Oh Soundwave, you absolute fragging fool.”

Jazz gestured around him with a sweep of his arm. “This is my life, Soundwave. This is what I get after eons and eons of leading and losing good mechs and being the advisor to the last fragging Prime.” His voice faltered slightly but he quickly fixed his composure and fixed Soundwave with a look of vehemence. “Instead of golden walls and Prowl, I get two broken record players...and you.”

Someone in the crowd gasped.

Soundwave didn’t move but when he spoke, his voice was grave. “Frenzy, deactivated. Jazz, owns only one broken record player.”

The terse lines of Jazz’s frame sagged at little at the revelation and the corner of his mouth gave the briefest downward twitch. But for all that peacetime had taken from him, it had not robbed him of the mastery of his own frame. He turned his helm away, focusing his gaze on Blurr. “Just go Soundwave.”

“Negative. Jazz, Soundwave’s conjunx. Soundwave, will not abandon.”

There was a brief silence and Soundwave watched as Jazz’s shoulders untensed, his clenched fists unfurling to rest limply at his sides. He turned to look at Soundwave over the cusp of his shoulders, helm turned just enough so the telepath could see his profile.

“I’m not one of your symbionts that needs looking after,” Jazz muttered softly.

Soundwave sighed. “Soundwave, understands.”

Jazz’s lips pursed and his chin gave the faintest of trembles as he struggled to contain the emotions effervescing in his Spark. “I killed Rumble and Buzzsaw.”

The faintest sound of sirens sounded in the distance but Soundwave paid them no mind. “Soundwave...knows this.”

That caught Jazz by surprise. He whirled around to face Soundwave, mouth agape and optics widening behind his visor. “You knew?”

“Yes,” Soundwave said and for some reason, he felt so inexplicably tired. The world was spinning a little faster on its axis and an odd sense he could only attribute to the desperate desire for recharge began to slowly creep up along his back. But he kept his gaze trained on Jazz. “I always knew.”

The saboteur swallowed roughly. “Then why the frag didn’t you say anything? I killed them and yet you let me sing Lazerbeak and Frenzy to sleep. You let me be alone with them and feed them treats and read them stories--.” A soft shaky sob escaped him, one he didn’t even try to cover.

Soundwave wanted to reach out and hold him. To wrap him in his arms and let the warmth of his frame and Spark lull him into serenity. It was probably his loyalty coding at work, he’d always been so susceptible to its whims, after all. First with Senator Ratbat, then Megatron and now with Jazz.

But when the mech beside Blurr reached out to grasp Jazz’s hand and Jazz squeezed it gratefully in turn, Soundwave knew then and there that it was not his place. It never had been.

He sighed, deeper than the previous, and the odd rasp was enough to pull his attention to his own frame. To the uneven interval at which his own Spark was spinning and the fading echo of his last remaining symbiont.

Panic overcame Soundwave and he fell to his knees, gasping as he delved into his quantum bond and searched for the familiar light that had been his favorite symbiont. He tried, he really tried but by the time he reached out, only silence and obscurity greeted him. There were echoes of a soft farewell, familiar warm undertones unmistakably Lazerbeak.

Soundwave’s ventilations hitched and suddenly that tiny thread of hope that’d been tethering him, keeping him together, snapped.

He didn’t register the feel of his frame falling to the floor, nor the cold of the ground underneath or the feverish warmth of his frame. The pain in his Spark was numb and the deadened sensation crept outwards, enveloping him inch by inch.

The darkness reached down to envelop him and Soundwave surrendered willingly to its embrace. Vaguely, he was aware of Jazz calling his name somewhere in the distance but he disregarded it. The warmth of oblivion was oh so welcoming. Soundwave suddenly found himself completely disinterested in a world without his symbionts and when he teetered on the threshold between continued existence and deactivation, he found no reason for hesitation.

He was not a religious mech but his last thought was nothing more than a desperate wish that he would somehow find himself reunited with all of his symbionts.

And with that, Soundwave finally let go.


End file.
